


Files

by chérmcfass (laeteaillard)



Category: A Dangerous Method RPF, Inglourious Basterds RPF, Lord of the Rings RPF, X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Military, Alternate Universe - World War II, Enemy Lovers, Exactly What It Says on the Tin, I have no idea why is McGregor in this, M/M, McGregor is the one who truly rulz da camp, Minor Character Death, clueless!Michael, quite some cursing, some people are all over the place, tough!James
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-06-01
Packaged: 2018-01-10 10:49:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1158782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laeteaillard/pseuds/ch%C3%A9rmcfass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1943. The Secong World War is raging through Europe, making information a very valuable good. In Switzerland, a neutral war zone, Colonel Fassbender runs a camp with a single goal: give the Führer all the information he needs that can't be extracted from dying soldiers on the fields. In this scenario, he meets James, a British lieutenant with trust issues, who does pretty much the same thing for the enemy. They talk for hours, building a friendship that was not that unusual inside a neutral zone. But when Fassbender's best spy is captured, things get a little out of hand for everyone involved.</p><p>Originally started based on a duo of pics with James and Michael in army uniforms, posted somewhere on McFassy LJ.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Comrades

“I could be jailed for treason.”

He sat in the wooden chair, putting an arm atop of the table and gazing the man in front of him. The soldier held a smirk in his lips, parted and crimson as chapsticks under the soft glow of the pub. Technically, Switzerland was a neutral zone, but several high-level both German and British members of the armies were well-known for attending it. He kept staring at those out of reality claiming lips, unable, as usual, to set his looks straight to the British’s eyes. The pub was not very good, didn’t have the best beer and most certainly had the worst customers Europe had ever seen, but it was discreet, fairly known for hosting the most of all transactions still viable in the 1940’s scenario. Everything was discussed inside those walls, from meat and sugar, both food genders currently scarce and hard to acquire, to prostitution and politics, the first usually exported to war countries, the second, opinions given after rounds of booze, phrases that would never see the light of day. No one paid much of attention to other people’s negotiations, but they were risking a lot being suited up and meeting in a public place, no matter how discreet it could be.

The bigger problem about being based in a neutral zone was the impressive amount of anti-war people, a problem indeed much bigger than enemy soldiers. Those people believed in something else, they believed that war was no good at all and that they should do whatever they could to stop it. It’s easy when you’re not just doing your job, just - although the colonel hated this expression quite emphatically - following orders. Soldiers should, following the train of thought of those anti-war creatures, refuse to do what they were told, refuse to be pawns in a crumbling strategy such as a battle one. They were willing to make those soldiers stop if need it’d be, which meant ambushes in dark alleys and hired hookers to lure them into certain death. The man who said civilians didn’t have their own battles to fight against the ones who made war happen definitely had never been in touch with any of the men who were scattered all over Switzerland. In such circumstances, even enemies were more reliable than native civilians.

In his own defense, Colonel Fassbender was unaware of almost everything about the man in front of him. The happening that gave birth to their routine of meetings was something unexpected and related straight to those so-called pacifists. He had been struck on an alley when coming back from an interrogation session with two captured French soldiers, held hostage under a small and very dirty apartment in the surroundings of an unnamed city - as many of the cities were, by that time. Attention claimed by the uniform worn by the man being assaulted, that British had come along and sent both villains to Morpheus’ arms. With the print of the gun held against his temple still lingering on his skin, Michael had no option but to thank the soldier, with whom he therefore had an eternal debt. After a very long talking on the way to that same pub, he found out that the man had a name - James - and truly belonged to the British army. His will was to take James and make him talk, or else it should be, after years of conditioning - but the truth was that he found the man quite agreeable and honest. Besides, there was this truce going on between enemy sides. They couldn’t go after any enemy currently based in a neutral zone and God helped the officer that made his soldiers try and kidnap someone in these terms. They exported militaries from all over Europe just to keep from touching those right across the street. No man could, _should_ respect a superior who sent him to betray something as ancient and well-preserved as this truce. It would result in mutiny and dishonorable dismiss for almost every man involved, so they just kept the blindfolds on as to the existence of foes in the same territory.

These were the terms that permitted James and the colonel to meet without having to hide from their mates - though they actually sort of hid themselves anyway, just in case. They had met six times after that first lifesaver one. Each one of them made Michael acknowledge something about that guy. He now knew his age - 33 -, his marital status - single -, his family status - missing -, his position inside the army - lieutenant -, his mission in Switzerland - information recovery, almost the same as Michael’s - and his wish to after-war scenario (in case his country won, of course) - become a farmer or run a small grocery store. He didn’t know his last name or the reason why he kept seeing Michael, meeting him every Tuesday at 7.00 pm and never leaving his company before Wednesday in the early morning. Both subjects were shoved away every time they were brought up, though, and after the third time that James persistently refused to answer, Michael gave up asking.

Apart from his personal and not very public life, though, James had proved himself a great speaker, a philosophy enthusiast with several knowledges about field strategy and military equipment. He had learned more in six meetings with James than in six years as a cadet. Besides that, he could hear a sweet comfortable tone in James’ voice, something cozy that had the ability to warm him up, even in that snowy December, to make him forget about outside’s horrors even if only for a few hours. As a result, he easily grew fond of that kid, secretly holding his memories of him as something to make him get through the week, in a sheer anticipation of those Tuesdays.

That night was not different from the others. Again, Michael met him smiling, joking about their delicate situation as friends in enemy sides. James smiled back, asking for the cheap scotch that was the only drinkable thing inside the pub. As usual, the waitress made it double. The British officer took a long sip and made a face at the disgusting taste before speaking.

“You are a colonel in a neutral zone, Fassbender.” He liked the way his name sounded in James’ tongue - slightly accented, Scottish, not British. But again, that was a question that the lieutenant never felt like answering. “No reasonable man would put you in jail. Who would torture the enemy to gather information?”

Michael snorted a laugh at the way James said the words, prankishly teasing as his lips touched the glass. “I don’t torture the enemy. I just ask. There are people to torture them for me.” The lieutenant’s laughter was clear yet discreet. “Like if that stepped up.”

The colonel rolled his eyes, engaging the battle with all his will, ending up defeated and paying another round. James sipped his Scotch silently, the combination of the edge of his cap, the shadowed pub and fluttering eyelids making it impossible to reach his eyes. If Michael had a glimpse of those eyes for a couple of times, it was already too much. He knew that they were blue but the shade of them remained unknown. He was thinking of tapping his glass on the table to break the silence; before he could do so, James’ attention swirled and focused on him.

“You are in charge and hold of a hostage camp, right?”

He frowned. “Yes, as I’ve told you before.”

“How many camps are there?” Though his voice remained calm and daydreaming, distant to say the least, Michael could hear a frank mixture of affliction and anxiety dripping down in the space between them. He hesitated, having a gulp of his scotch and keeping silent for good. He was trained to conceal informations like those from everyone, it would take more than smalltalk with a smooth voice to make him give it away like that. James noticed the hesitation and added, “I’m not militarily interested, Colonel. Promise it’s something much more personal.”

“A few.” Michael sighed, evasively. “Why?”

“Calculations”, said James vaguely. He shrugged his shoulders. “A probability matter.”

Michael didn’t take half a second to unite this information and the previous ones he about James, coming to the precisely right conclusion that he was looking for someone. Someone very specific, probably related to him, if it was a personal issue - probably family. There could be no harm done in _asking_ , right? “Who is it?” James rose his chin a bit, eyes still placed in shadows. “The person you want. Who is it?”

James licked those crimson lips of his and swallowed hard, as if speaking would take much of himself. “A woman.” Michael entwined his fingers on top of the table patiently. He wouldn’t rush him. Much. The other man made no movements, though. He held back a sigh. “I hold several women hostage inside that camp, Lieutenant.” Which was actually a lie, for women were terribly unreliable witnesses and almost as bad as spies as to give away coherent information. Besides, their fragile beings usually fell to diseases far easier than men, which meant that, while a male hostage could handle three to five sessions of interrogation, torture and a beautiful month of sepsis, females hardly ever made it to the second questioning or even the second _week_. Nevertheless, he kept talking. “I don’t give a shit for her name, for they never speak their real names to us, but if you want to know if I have her, you’d prefer spitting her physical description. Now.”

The younger man thought for a moment - a long thorough one - but gave up, talking slowly. “Blonde, thin, not much shorter than me. Captured in Paris when leaving a ball.” He tilted his head a little, making Michael able to catch a glimpse of gleam on his face. Whoever this woman was, she was important enough to bring emotion to that little guy. The colonel frowned. “You know, nevermind. Forget it. Pretend I’ve never mentioned it.”

But Michael already wasn’t listening. He mentally mapped every girl he had been in touch with - which was not hard, for they were only a few - while searching for someone who could match James’ description. He didn’t know if he was going to tell him anything _pronto_ but still he searched. A blank took over him almost immediately: no one in a garment had been brought to him. The silence hovered upon them for several minutes, being broken by a tired waitress. They asked for another round, the fourth or fifth of the night. Michael rose his eyes not to meet his again. This was expected, usual, but disturbing anyway.

“Who is she?”, he asked, straight, shooting the question much more as a way to keep the smaller man _talking_.

“Nobody”, answered James, circling the edge of the glass with a very pale finger. His eyes would reveal the lie, if only Michael could _see_ them. He shook his head almost unperceivably, took a deeper breath. His chin rose once again, in a much smoother movement. “Someone I once met.”

His voice was steady again, like if that sudden moment of weakness had never happened, meant nothing at all. Michael storaged that new information about him - he could control his emotions, at least a bit. Better than himself, at least. It was obvious that the colonel was dying for explanations, for the reason behind James’ subtle fragility. It was not that he had never listened to passion or emotion in James’ voice, not like that at all. The pain was the new matter being brought to the table. If the lieutenant ever seemed anything, insecure, hurt or distressed were definitely not top of these things. He was usually poised, enthusiastic, yes, but always with a foot preposterously stuck to the floor to keep him from going too far. Even when he laughed in pure delight - what could happen from stupid jokes, cases Michael told him only to entertain him and get to hear him laughing so openly, childishly - there was a certain way of doing it that preserved his focus in real life.

Although Fassbender had tried to get back to the woman, the smaller man refused persistently to bite in, doing his best to change his train of thought, to get him caught in something a little more amusing, whatever it would be. Michael didn’t try anymore after a while. He already knew James well enough to know that the stubborn snob-tongued shortie wouldn’t fall for his attempts, specially when being aware that the colonel _wanted_ to know more. So he let himself be dragged into other subjects and pretended that everything would be forgotten, as the lieutenant himself seemed to want. It didn’t and never would satisfy him, but could make things a little less indigestible for now.

James left earlier at that night. When Michael pulled him closer for a comrade’s farewell, he dodged, leaving the colonel uncomfortably breathing behind. At the mental file that he kept about James, right below the note about how hard he tried to conceal his feelings, he added a new one: whatever war meant to him or how he had gotten into it, above all things, it made him hurt.


	2. Camps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is where some action begins.

Michael’s head kept reviewing that night over and over again, looking for an indication, for something to justify the sudden avoiding behaviour that James switched to. Through the following week, two blonde girls sat in front of him, pleading, begging, hands shaking and lips trembling under his fiery copper-flamed gaze. He sang the word “James” for them with absolutely no reaction from those terrified bodies. At night, in his bed, he asked himself why, but the answer was obvious - he wouldn’t hurt someone that meant that much for James. Enemy or not, he was his mate now, he fucking saved his life. Michael cared for him more, much more than he did for the some of the men he shared positions in the army with. He felt weak, a traitor, unable to do his own work, charmed under the enchantments of a British lieutenant who had happened to save him from an early meeting in hell in a twist of fate.

It was a late Saturday, Sunday before dawn, when he decided that he was going to pay his debt by finding the woman and keeping her from torture - and that would be it. He was going to send letters to other hostage camps and lie and cheat if need it’d be, but then his debt would be paid and his work would carry on as usual. They were in a neutral zone, no one was supposed to acknowledge the existence of other camps, enemy or not. It was a pact they all followed down to the last, to make sure they stood a chance to build up war strategies and, shamefully selfish as it seems, remain alive. The only reason why they could walk in their uniforms was that this truce was up. All he needed to get things back as they were was a bit more of information and some persuasion. Then, his mission would be complete. He planned to show up in the next Tuesday to ask James for any other useful information.

The thoughts stopped rambling inside his mind, sudden as a grenade blast. He took a deep breath and rubbed his temples, swaying his hands through his own hair and peering down at files he was adding - or at least trying to add - new information to. A soldier was supposed to pick them up next Wednesday, which meant in about four days, to hand them over to one of the higher officers who, by all means, should make any useful and/or reliable information to come to the master’s ears. Laid in the above bunker there was Viggo, lieutenant Mortensen, one of the only mates he truly relied on. Being the head of a hostage camp was one of the most difficult tasks in such a war scenario. Michael knew that History - the capital-H history, the one which always looked after the winner’s sides - would never acknowledge the existence of such places. “Yes”, the books would say, “there were interrogations, but they were mostly done inside concentration camps, or in private rooms under the acquaintance of Hitler himself”.

Michael couldn’t help but to snort a laugh at the thought. That would definitely be bullshit. If everything his soldiers did had to have The Führer’s personal approval and acknowledgement, war would happen much slower. If people like him didn’t exist, there would be no massive interrogations and strategy would pretty much blow. Concentration camps were not a place to interrogate, it was somewhere where homosexual people plotted treason and jewish people plotted treason and soldiers plotted treason; it was a place where people went to work and die, not to be questioned. Places as the one he ruled were the places where people were stripped out of their morals, integrity and self-control in order to fill in the blanks for the German army.

For all that matters, colonel Fassbender wasn’t exactly proud of the job he had been doing for the past five years. War was an exceptionality, a complicated situation in which good men were obliged to do bad things and where bad men were invited to be even worse than their natural self. He didn’t really know in which situation he fitted better and didn’t much of care about it, most of the time. Except when he thought of the always dying civilians. Most specifically, when he thought about James’ probably already dead civilian. He grabbed the pen and re-started writing, his calligraphic pattern all messed up and irregular as usual. Doctors couldn’t read it, let alone officers, but he wouldn’t share the gathered information with the whole camp just to make sure it was perfectly readable. It was too tricky to do such thing.

In bed, lieutenant Mortensen twisted and opened a lazy eye.

“Still working on those shitty pieces?”

Michael grinned at his disheveled being, shrugging his shoulders contently.

“Someone has to, Morty.” He turned back at the papers, kept scribbling on them. “Go back to sleep. I’ll be done in an hour or so.”

“You said that an hour ago. Just fucking come to bed, you idiot.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Was that a proposition, lieutenant Mortensen?”

“It was an order.”

“I’m a higher rank officer, as you well know, I’m afraid.”

“Yes, and I’m in charge for the camp after eleven for a reason, as _you_ well know, I’m afraid, which is to grant that every officer inside this place have some sleep. It includes you, you shithead. Leave the paperwork for the morning and get laid before I go down and make you.”

Their glares stood up a fierce competition as if to know which would be right. Fate said none, as a commotion downstairs made them get up in a hurry, Mortensen sliding into his pants and boots and grabbing a coat to wear on top of his bare skin on his way to the door. He shoved it open and hopped down the staircase three steps at a time, already screaming at the soldiers who were being pulled away from someone by medical officers. Michael had seen that scene before - not ever after they had built a military interrogation camp in Switzerland and set themselves as occupants of the neutral zone as well, only while they used concealed places and hid themselves under civilian clothing. It was a risk to be a civilian in a neutral zone. Without the uniform, you were only a bag of potential information. The green suit was a sort of protection. At that time, though, he didn’t say a word. Viggo was in charge and he could deal the other soldiers much better than Michael himself. The proof was that everyone just stepped up in their underpants and sweatshirts and saluted when he halted them as if they hadn’t been just propped out of bed by the fact that one of their own kind appeared to be dying.

Michael bypassed them all on his way to officer McGregor, a fucking British who happened to be summoned to German army with guns pointed to his head and whose abilities and ethics were enough to make him reliable, despite his utter disapproval of any and everything anyhow related to war. He would remain loyal if his job required so. As long as he could ease the pain of those around him, he could be spared from the concentration camp and the several tortures colonel Fassbender would put him through before handing him over to the crows. Michael would of course never admit he was growing fond of that snob fella.

“It’s cable Roth, sir.” Fuck. “He’s been shot.”

“Roth.” He kneeled beside the dismayed body, piercing Eli’s eyes deeply with his own.

“Sir.” Roth couldn’t focus but it was absolutely obvious that, despite, he was trying very hard to. Michael tried not to see the difficulty in that task. Several things showed up in his mind, while he made up the scenarios and tried to recall what the heck was Roth doing outside, who the fuck was with him, if someone was, and why, why on all Earth in a fucking neutral zone, would someone harm a based officer.

“Report”, he ordered, coldly. Behind him and above his voice, Viggo sent more than half of their very small crew back to bed or to grab water and cloths to wash the concrete tiles.

“Permission to speak-” Eli coiled, pale as if a ghost has passed him by. “-freely, sir.”

“Granted.”

“Fucking-British-bastards.” The words were forced through gritted teeth, while McGregor stripped him on the floor and barked orders to every soldier that hadn’t been dismissed by Mortensen. Three perfectly and bloody shaped bullet holes made an angle in his belly. “They caught - you British scumbag, leave the fucking bullet - Bean.”

Michael had to grit his teeth in order to remain calm in front of his subordinates. Even Ewan couldn’t help but to stop and stare at him. Sean was their best spy, their most cherished field agent and the only human capable of controlling Viggo. Lieutenant Mortensen himself was the only one who truly knew his first name, an information many tried to pull out of him, unfruitfully. Rumors had it that they had been lovers since their cadet years. Fassbender felt the internal shivering of Mortensen like if it was his own, while the lieutenant tried to grab a wall until his knuckles whitened.

“Which ones, Roth?”

“The McAvoy fellas, sir.”

He had the time only to sigh before he passed away. McGregor decided to take the moment and remove him to the officers’ infirmary to sew his pieces back - if possible. Reluctantly, the soldiers that hadn’t been chosen to help him obeyed Michael’s halt and went back to their beds. No one stood there, not even to clean up the bloody mess. The colonel took a few strides and reached his mate.

“We’ll get him back”, said he, clamping a hand on Viggo’s shoulder. Mortensen seemed to be going from utter shock to the brink of tears.

“No, we won’t.” His shoulders lowered, tension giving space to single desperation. He seemed to have shrunk several inches in seconds, but his voice remained steady. “None of those taken by the McAvoy crew ever come back.”

Michael wanted to insert some hope back into his friend’s soul, but Viggo knew it better. If they treated him like a civilian, Sean probably had about three or four hours before his body was dumped on a hole or burned to ashes. If they truly broke the truce and kidnapped an officer on duty, maybe it could buy him another twenty or thirty very long hours. It was the side effect of war that Michael hated the most, and he didn’t even have a loved one to lose.


	3. Hostages

When the next Tuesday happened, Michael’s head was irrevocably focused on something else. Usually, he’d take all the mockery of his companions before heading to the bar to meet James, but the atmosphere inside the camp was absolutely disastrous. With Mortensen out of his mind for the loss of the men he - and at this point Michael’s head always made him shudder softly - loved and Roth still stuck in a campaign bed, apparently not much closer to recovery than he had been only a couple of days before, every officer was distressed as if on the front. He had already seen three of their most exemplar comrades get back drunk and be punished for it in the morning; another got caught in a bar fight and according to Ewan, almost lost an eye.

Viggo himself was the portrait of a salt-and-pepper haired demon wearing a green suit. Michael couldn’t make him see that he was abusing his power and the soldiers, so he made sure that he would keep himself in charge for the camp through the entire day. It meant that, while McGregor applied beautifully doping doses of opioids into Mortensen to make sure he’d sleep, the colonel had to inspection every corner of the camp, round three times a night, look after the sentinels and do his own information suppliance work. As a result, Michael had no idea of how more than three hours straight of sleep felt like in days by then. His own temper, usually strangely smooth and controlled, was derailing and crumbling. Ewan was helping him, solving every little issue he could in order to preserve the sanity of his superior officer. Without it, Michael would probably be dead by then.

It wasn’t really an unexpected thing that when Fassbender finally reached the bar, he couldn’t help but to stare at James like if he wanted him to disappear. He had no fucking clue if the McAvoy fellas - whoever they were - were in the same camp as James and truly gave no furry asses about it. He only wanted to know, he had to know about Sean. Someone had to know and someone had to pay. God forbade him to go back to the camp without anything to present to his companions. That tension would sustain itself for no more than a month, if that much. Something in his guts said that Sean wasn’t killed - _yet_. He just needed to know.

The colonel crumbled in his regular chair, staring swiftly at James. The beautiful and welcoming smile that always showed in those crimson lips faded in a speck of moment. He frowned, re-acquiring the serious expression he had presented the previous Tuesday.

“What happened to you?” He assumed that his eyes were betraying the bitter taste of treason he felt climbing up his throat. At the same time - and God he hated himself like the scumbag he was for feeling like that - he felt the void left by the sudden disappearance of that smile. For some reason, that smile had the power to anchor him to some good moments, or had, until that day. He hadn’t noticed, but he had been waiting for it since last Tuesday, when James refused to keep smiling and parted without any new flash of those white teeth.

“Who rules your camp?”

The question, thrown at him like the smack of a fist, made James’ hands tighten the grip on the glass of cheap scotch. “You know I can’t tell you, not anymore than you c-”

_“I didn’t ask if you can tell me!”_ He hissed, threatening. “Your... guys. Creatures. Those fucking bastards you call comrades broke the fucking truce and caught one of my fucking officers.” The accusation dripped from his voice so loudly that the entire bar fell into a respectful chattering, to preserve their obvious need for privacy. Michael could almost sense the outraged way how James took the phrase and smile on the inside for it. “It’s a fucking neutral zone, lieutenant, a fucking no-man land with rules to make sure everyone stays alive. We’re not supposed to even acknowledge the existence of each other in here so _why in every fucking christian hell your compatriots took one of my men?_ ”

James got defensive just as quick as any other human would. “How can you be so sure that it was one of my crew?”

“We’re dogs to greens”, snorted he, disgusted at the thought that James was defending the bastards who had broke the pact so openly. Rationally, he understood - he would do precisely the same if someone would charge one of his own kind of such a terrible war crime - but still couldn’t take it. There again, he was not a hundred percent sure that James belonged to the McAvoy crew. He just felt like he was. “There’s not a shade of green we can’t recognize. My surviving agent said they’re... They’re...”

“McAvoy’s people.” Michael’s trembling lips - in anger and frustration, not in desperation as much as in wryness - were enough for an answer. Fassbender’s reputation was just the same as McAvoy’s. They were equal, feared by friends and foes and neutrals and everyone above or below them. If he could see James’ eyes, he would have noticed the cloud that towered over them. “When did they take him?”

“Saturday’s late night.” The colonel sighed, finally letting some of his exhaustion show. He couldn’t fall, not when everyone he met was holding on to him, but fuck, he wanted to.

Silence took his quota of the awkwardness they fell into. After some minutes, James rose to his feet, a colossus of human being, short in height and in height only. Michael tilted his head to look at him. At the end, it was his only hope. He couldn’t retaliate and risk his position for a single man. He wanted, don’t get him wrong. He wanted almost as much as Mortensen had wanted when he’d woken up the next morning - deeply, immediately, devastatingly - but he couldn’t. He wouldn’t send every other man under his command to a probable death without even knowing if his mate was at least alive. What would be the use, then?

He heard James’ breath, unrealistically loud and irrevocably demanding attention, felt it like if it had been exhaled on his own skin. It felt like good news.

“Can make no promises, Michael.” Through the veil of tiredness and wrath, the colonel could feel the warmth coming from James’ mouth as he spoke his name. There was something else, too. An authority that the smaller man, despite his poised tone, his graceful manners, his undoubtable expertise, usually lacked severely, now showed open for everyone to see. It appeared to be kept hidden, just waiting for the time to emerge. He seemed more like a commander, someone in the same or even the above level as Michael, than like a mere subordinate lieutenant. Even his voice had the tranquility that higher rank officers had to have to get their crews through crisis. “A lot can happen in seventy-two hours. But I’ll figure it out.”

He left in a hurry, without saying goodbye. Michael took a glance at the glass on top of the table. James had also left money to pay for his unfinished drink. It took the colonel less than a minute to ask for another one, merge with the other fellas in the bar and, finally, chill. He still felt torn on the insides, but James’ words kept resounding inside his mind.

_I’ll figure it out._

 

Going back to the camp at that night was less a matter of wanting than of finding a way. He knew what was expecting him and truly didn’t want to confront that reality feeling as naked as he felt then, having stripped himself of everything just like he had done inside the bar. He got inside his room as a cheating husband trying to crawl into his bed without getting caught.

No need to say he failed it completely.

“You’re back.”

The voice didn’t belong to Viggo, as he somehow had expected. While he was away, Ewan was left in control over the entire camp, a second medical officer named Augustus taking care of the ill. McGregor took a breath and got back to monitoring the heartbeat race of Mortensen, who seemed to be completely dead on the below bunker.

“Is he ok?”

“He’s alive, if this makes you feel better.” He sighed, shaking his head almost unperceivably. “But not for long. I can’t keep him sedated for ever, Michael. Not even until tomorrow. Let him handle a hostage or whatever.”

“You want me to put a civilian under his command to make him get it out of him?”

“You certainly have a troublesome one. There has to be. Let him beat someone to near-death status and then he’ll cry like a lady but at least he’ll feel.”

“You don’t sound like a medical officer, McGregor.”

“Because right now I’m not an officer. I’m a doctor with a patient that’s having a serious problem dealing with the loss of a loved one.” He got up, worn out, black circles under his eyes concealing one of the punches Mortensen had applied to his face just earlier that same day. “He must feel, Mike. If he doesn’t, he’ll get himself hooked up to sedatives until his mind becomes useless. Let him be a bastard, the most awful of all jerks, but let him be. He needs it.”

It was Michael’s time to take a deep breath. “I’ll find something to do for him.”

Ewan agreed, but didn’t move. With Michael back, he was supposed to surrender his position as head of the camp and go back to the infirmary, which he didn’t. He just kept looking at the colonel, breathing in and out without knowing how to get to the point. Finally, he spoke.

“Where were you?” Michael didn’t answer. It was not any of McGregor’s responsibilities to question a higher rank officer about his spare time. “Michael, I’m saying it as a friend. A comrade, once I know you don’t really mind the meaning of true friendship, specially not toward someone like me. Don’t go chasing ghosts. I know you lost an officer, but he’s lost more than that. He’s lost a friend, a lover. He really doesn’t need to be alone right now. Not really.”

The colonel chewed the inside of his own mouth for a second, the lightheadedness of the booze leaving his brain in subtle footsteps. “There’s someone. Someone I met, someone I know, that can find Sean.”

“Sean is dead, Michael. The sooner you understand it, the sooner you’ll heal. Above everyone, you should know it.”

He gazed upon Michael for a moment before saluting and asking for a dismissal that came promptly. The colonel restrained himself not to get laid on his own bed, currently occupied by a half-dead lieutenant, crumbling then in an old chair. Of course someone handed his medical records to Ewan and of course he fumbled and ferreted and snooped on them until his eyes went dry. He must know about Rommy, about how he had to let go of one of his most cherished friends and teen love, how he almost went mad, how he would have gone mad if he hadn’t been summoned to join the army by that time. She was born and raised threatened by a lung malformation that took most of her living efforts. He had taken years to get through the feeling of loss, to stop acting like a bastard and stop being a problem inside the army. The only thing he actually felt better about her leaving before the war started was that, if Michael had ever been married to her, he would have to turn her down and give her away for this psychotic genius he now submitted himself to. It was the thing that eased his pain the most when it burnt inside his heart, every now and then.

In bed, Viggo mumbled and tried to move, unsuccessfully. Michael could get a grip on the words but he wished he hadn’t: “come back”. He knew what he was referring to at that time, as he knew the next twenty or so times the lieutenant repeated them during his sleep. He would have Sean back. He had to.

 

Just as Ewan said he should, Michael let Viggo have his share of the hostages. Mortensen was and would always be the top interrogator of them all, but at that time, he was definitely at his best. Although he did rush the death of three men, Fassbender hadn’t ever had so many things to report in a single week before. It almost made him forget that days were passing by - almost. He barely slept before the Tuesday when he was supposed to meet James and know about his missing - he refused severely to think of Sean as dead, although even Mortensen was starting to fall for it - officer.

But James didn’t show up. Not on that Tuesday nor the following, although he couldn’t possibly know about that next Tuesday. Their routine of meetings, interrupted by James at first, was interrupted next by an unexpected event: half of the people inside the camp were caught by an infection. Common sepsis, as McGregor would say so, caused by the alliance between the poor hygiene conditions most of the hostages were submitted to and fiercely lasting tortures that Viggo had started to use, ones that let scraps of them hanging loose from their own bodies until someone had the stomach and mercy to sew them back in place - when possible. They lost twenty hostages over the week and three German soldiers. They were still taking care of some who were in the brink of death but resisting, making them numb enough to talk before they die, and talk a lot. They collected information like pebbles on the margin of a river or a British beach, making the plague be honored as the third torturer, alongside with the hunger and Mortensen. Michael had the worst task: talking to the ones who were too in pain to look through the veil of it. As an officer, he gave no furry asses about other people’s pain, but as a human he wasn’t very comfortable with actually confronting it.

McGregor was having his time protecting Roth from the infection and changing his bandages. Augustus was in charge of most of the remaining German soldiers and, as for the hostages, they didn’t have much to do about them but to carry on subtracting anything useful from them.

He was extracting information from a Polish soldier, the spoken language being a German so twisted that his head ached with the effort to understand it, when he heard it. Clear, moaned, not even close to be absorbed by the surrounding walls. He got up in a hurry, crossing the improvised hostage nursery in long strides and identifying the owner of that voice. The scene he faced could have broken his heart if he, as a high-level German officer, hadn’t got rid of those notions of heartbreaking and honest compassion. The woman laid there couldn’t possibly be over thirty years old, pale and fragile underneath the campaign blankets that were the only protection they wanted - and could afford - to offer to their prisoners. Blonde softly curled hair cascaded on the sack used as a pillow, knotted and opaque, lifeless. A gleam of sweat touched her temples and forehead, the obvious fever taking over her completely while she spoke again: “James”.

He felt his heart stop beating, sitting by her side and grabbing a shaky hand between his. His affliction toward the lack of James for over a week - the lack of himself, of the informations he was supposed to give him, that smile - made the name sound three times more powerful, more demanding. Needing action to be taken.

“What James?” The woman kept saying the name, deliriously, unstoppably. Michael’s slap to her face was heard all through the entire infirmary. She quivered and opened her eyes, a flame of both shock and disgust well alive in them as she gazed him. For just a second, he wondered if James’ eyes could flame with such emotion. “What James?”

She sighed, tilting her head and vehemently refusing to speak. He was speaking in English, which should be but could be not her mother language, so he tried the question once again in French, with no better response. With nothing left as an option, he spoke himself. “Short. Blue eyes, crimson lips. Thirty-three years old. British lieutenant, single, absolutely adorable.”

Each drop of information was absorbed by the girl with honest pain, and when he spilt the words “British lieutenant”, her eyes were with him again, already, shimmering in the dim light with a concern and something loyal and endearing, something that Michael had often found in some soldiers’ eyes when they were forced to reveal something about their commander. She tried to hide it but her lids were not quick enough. A tear traced her face, leaving a gleaming trail behind. He held her hands tightly, whispering softly.

“He’s safe.”

The reaction wasn’t unexpected - he had seen soldiers cry those same tears when they found out that their mates weren’t captured - but it stung worse than with any of them. There’s a difference between a soldier and a civilian, specially when said civilian is a woman, one that apart from her obvious connection to a British officer, had not much to offer to them. At that moment, he felt like if he could save the girl, return her to James and get rid of any further obligation he had toward him. Just felt. That woman was as condemned as everyone inside that room and nothing he could do would change it. Besides, he didn’t know if he would ever truly let go of James. He was struggling with his will to just do something when another word escaped her pale lips. Michael had to lean to understand it and had to hear it once more to process it.

“Yours?” He was sure to have heard the words “he’s mine”. A hundred percent sure, by the way. She nodded as she opened those immense eyes, gleaming softly now. Michael had to restrain his urge for more. Anything else. The knowledge that she was a prisoner and he was the designated interrogator struck him hard enough so he could actually form the words.

“Who is he?” The question was supposed to be sharp and let her go of any attempt of muteness, but the words he heard were soft and pleading, coming from his mouth with an excruciating feeling of missing and hurting, like if spoken by the teenage boy he once was, the slim clumsy kid attempting to get inside the army for no apparent reason. He didn’t know how much of that missing belonged to Rommy, to Sean or to James himself, but still he felt it. She coughed and sighed before speaking.

“He is my husband.” She begun to smile, but a cough made her cease it. “Or was. I’m not sure.”

The shock crawled upon his throat. Husband? Then James lied to him? He was fucking married? To her? Michael stopped, clamping her hand in his, hard enough to be a meaningful gesture.

“He never told me he was married.” Fassbender took a breath, blinking swiftly to pretend he didn’t feel a little hurt.

She laughed, clearly. The sound of her laughter tingled inside of him. “Would you say you were married? Would you say it to an enemy?”

No, he wouldn’t. She was right, he wouldn’t, nobody would. The woman started to think and speak about the marriage, the small ceremony, the way she kissed him and loved him and the way she never felt like letting him go. The way he protected her. Michael felt like an intruder, but couldn’t help to keep listening. The speech was brief, cut several times by the coughing. When she said she would have some sleep, the colonel couldn’t force her to stay up. He just couldn’t do such a thing to someone that James cared about, that he loved. So, he just held her hand until the grip softened and he could hear her fall asleep. From the other room, the rumbling of chattering eased and McGregor, in civilian clothes, showed up to check on his superior. He stood up for a second longer, frowning to the scene he’d found.

“Were you questioning her?”, asked him, when he finally managed to understand that Michael was truly holding the pale blue-nailed hand of an American civilian hostage.

“Sort of.” The turquoise eyes raised and met Ewan’s. The doctor had never seen such a plea in those eyes, which could be kind of scary if it wasn’t hypnotic. “She needs to get out of here.”

What had happened to his colonel or what kind of brainwash he had been submitted to, McGregor for certain was unaware of, but he sensed that it was deep. Truly deep, because Fassbender wouldn’t plead for a hostage, no matter how cute or lovely or warm and sweet-voiced she was. The Scot refrained his will to rub his temples. “Michael, she’s sick. She’s a hostage.” Being honest, she was everything they could not tolerate inside the officer’s infirmary, the whole regiment would bring up a mutiny and have him killed. “You know the rules.”

“I’m the higher rank officer in here.” Which meant nothing at all inside the medical facilities. McGregor had supremacy over every and any decision taken inside those facilities, because his opinion was supposed to be the most professional they could ever afford. The doctor just raised an eyebrow, pointing this fact wordlessly at Michael. The colonel lowered his voice. “Ewan, I’m not asking you to kill one of ours to put her into the other room. I just want you to examine her, to keep her alive. Please.” He knew he was being insistent, but aren’t all persuasion matters like this, required the speaker to be persuasive? “She’s a civilian, doc. She’s married. She’s young and beautiful and she doesn’t deserve to be treated like scum. She’s innocent. Look at her.”

Although Fassbender didn’t have any clue of how to plead for anything, he found himself very convincing anyway. It wasn’t hard to know the soft spots about Ewan, the doctor had been making them all very clear for years now. A single glance at the sweaty pale body, fragile under the blankets, so obviously fairy-like, was enough to make him consider. Ewan still wasn’t sure that this wasn’t just a very weird Michael-ish way of compensating the world for all the things he couldn’t do for Sean or for Rommy, but the girl didn’t deserve to be kept from medical help whatever the circumstances proved themselves to be. He sighed, giving up to his colonel.

“I’ll ask Augustus to save her a bed.” He gazed Michael for over a minute. “You’re insane, Fassbender. Absolutely insane.”

Michael could have been a true officer and tell him he was crossing the line, but instead he found the guts to grin and thank. He didn’t mind his own madness. He was helping someone. A very important someone to someone who was very important to him.


	4. Informations

On the Sunday right after that very weird week, Michael rushed himself inside the infirmary like if he had the hellhounds biting his ankles. Ewan was getting used to it, after four days in this same _modus operandi_ , but still he shushed Fassbender as soon as he set his feet inside the room. The officer stood up and asked for permission, to what McGregor just shook his head. In the closer bed, laid with eyes barely open, there was Eli.

“We’ve just started sending him out of the sedatives, colonel”, said a very helpful Augustus. “If we detox him smoothly enough, he’ll be good to go in forty-eight hours, maybe less.”

The warmth and relief that took over Michael’s body were unexpected but very welcomed. Cable Roth was out of danger. Sane, probably, or else Ewan would have kept him on drugs. He could tell him what truly happened and help him to find Sean. Help Mortensen to get through the fact that he had lost him. Although Michael didn’t yet believe that a man like Sean would get caught and killed so easily, the sudden quietness Viggo fell into was concerning him. His lieutenant was the second most important person to the men and he was failing to even look like a man. Mortensen was a ghost, a demon, anything but that cheerful little bastard who let his beard grow like a bush, saying he missed it on field and gosh, his superior officer wouldn’t turn him in, would he? Then he would look at Michael, who would say that he liked beards and they’d both be laughed at, despite common sense saying that Viggo already had a lover he wouldn’t trade for anything in the world and that Michael was above these human needs.

Fassbender missed that guy. His mate was a selfless charming creature, authoritarian but kind, someone the younger lads respected and the equals appreciated as a role model. He was the counterpart to Michael’s usual poise and lack of chattering, the less ground-staked man. He was the one who looked after the morals and blesses of the regiment, and if the cause they fought for didn’t allow many of his behaviors - including his widely spread love affair - no man under his command would ever turn him in, for no reason. This was the loyalty he had brought up: first to him, then for the Führer. Always, _always_ first for the man that knew you by your name and could tell about your family and always asked if you ever missed them. Not that Michael wasn’t loved, but he was also feared in a way Viggo would never be. Mortensen was respected, what led his officers to follow him was this. And they’d follow wherever he’d lead. Blindly.

“I have made her tests.” This voice was McGregor’s. The colonel stopped his train of thought and looked at the ginger haired man. “You know we don’t have a hospital but what I could get from my impressions is that she’s down with a pneumonia. Highly transmissible and hardly curable. Are you sure you want to keep up with this madness?”

“She’s got informations I can’t afford to lose, doc. I’ll carry on.”

Ewan sighed as if he already knew this would be the answer. “She’s there, by the window. Awake. Waiting for you, I guess.”

He nodded, striding his way to the bed and reaching out for the pale hand before he could rationalize what he was doing. “Good morning, miss Lawrence.”

“Colonel Fassbender.” A cough, the first of the morning. “How are you?”

“Eager to hear you speak.”

 

As usual, Michael waited until Jennifer fell asleep to leave the infirmary. Ewan was still working, but outside. He was summoned upstairs to take care of a couple of bruises in Mortensen’s knuckles, tender and bleeding much less than the face of the man he almost got killed. The colonel yawned, walking towards his office, entering it without a single noise. He had slept there for the past three nights, keeping up with the two reports he had to make now: the army report and the transcription of the words Jennifer told him. He didn’t know if this was her real name or if the things she said were real, but he took them in and breathed and ate and slept protecting these thoughts like something very cherished. Less than forty-eight hours for him to meet James again, to bring the light up to his eyes, to make him smile when he told him he had found his... wife. He couldn’t point out why it was that important but as long as it kept being important, it should be done.

He rubbed his temples and eyes, yawning wider. His neck and back hurt badly, his hands acquiring little round bruises and crescent-shaped scars from the woman’s hand. She was struggling hard as a soldier to stay alive, holding on to Michael’s promise that he would bring James to her once again. The colonel didn’t remember when or how or why he had made such promise but now that it was done, he would keep up with it. His word was not exactly sacred but it was just close enough to it.

A footsteps sound outside put him in alert status pronto. He propped at his feet, pulling a gun and holding it safely against his body, concealing for a moment before getting out of the office. The door opened swiftly, like if the man behind it had already done it before. Michael had but a moment to grab him and point the barrel at his maxilar. The man shivered but didn’t move an inch.

“It’s me.” A moment of weakness took over Fassbender’s knees, making him frail for less than a second before pressing the gun harder against the man’s skin. “Michael, it’s me. Stop shaking, you’ll have me killed.”

He tossed the smaller body away, watching it land on the concrete tiles with a low but heavy pounding. It was a lie, Michael was _not_ shaking. The problem was that it had been their kind of secret code when they practiced ambushes. That code meant the other wanted truce, wanted to talk, that he surrendered. Every couple of soldiers had their own code. The only person despite Viggo that could know that code was the man Michael used the code with.

The colonel locked and put away the gun, pulling the man up from the floor with every muscle in his body tensioning.

“Welcome back, lieutenant Bean.”

The other man just held on to Fassbender’s hand for a while longer than mere help demanded. “I’m relieved to be back, sir.”

Michael had a mouthful of questions to spit at him, many stuff he had to know, but he couldn’t. First, because the man had been fucking kidnapped and apparently walked all day to their camp in the fucking Switzerland's winter without proper protection, in rotten, worn and scrapped clothing. He had cold burns and cracks all over his face, some of them still bleeding. His lips were blue-ish and dotted with dry blood, he had a large bruise in his temple, where he was probably struck before leaving his capturers. He needed a doctor, before everything.

Like if the thought was his queue, McGregor started climbing down the stairs, seeming exhausted. Dealing with Viggo was not an easy task, lately. He had another punch mark, this time much more subtle, by the right side of his face. He froze as if he had seen a ghost when he understood who was the man standing holding Michael’s hand. His mouth opened on its own as he tried to speak, no word finding its way out of his body.

“He needs assistance, officer McGregor.” The Scot nodded, leading them to a spare bed inside the infirmary. Sean sat down clumsily, making faces and shivering as Ewan and Michael began to undress him. They mixed the warm water Ewan always left heating for tea - damn British habits, but they were proving themselves useful - with some clean mostly sterile water and washed his body inch by inch. The colonel picked new clothes for him, as the doctor stitched and cleaned the worst of his cuts and scrapes. The worn out body already felt like patchwork, always stitched and healing, like a true soldier’s body was. Sean spoke little, drank some brandy and a little warm tea, swallowed the dry bread and the weak, watery soup as if they were a banquet. He seemed tortured, but mostly whole.

His eyes were closing by themselves by the moment his superiors were done with him. Ewan made it vehemently clear that he should stay inside the infirmary and don’t leave before he was fully healed, but Michael knew there was something more important to be done. Militarily speaking, he meant. Or thought of meaning. Sean caught the opportunity like a drowning man held on to a lifesaver.

“I think I should report, sir.” He looked at Michael while saying it, tense in anticipation and longing.

“You certainly should, officer.” Fassbender took a glance at McGregor, who remained silent. He understood what the younger man was about to do. “Unfortunately, not to me. The officer in charge is lieutenant Mortensen. Go have a word with him, I’m sure the formality will be welcomed.” It was clear that Sean was making quite an effort to keep from smiling. “I was in the middle of reporting to the main base when you showed up, so I’ll just carry on with it. Once your bedchamber is closer to the office, I’ll keep it for tonight. You can share mine with the lieutenant, in case he makes no objections to it.”

Sean nodded, silently, swallowing hard. Michael couldn’t keep the small grin from his face.

“You are dismissed, officer. We’ll speak about whatever happened once you’ve had a good night sleep and some well-deserved rest.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He could sense that Sean was using every single cell of his self-control not to hop up the stairs so, very discreetly, Michael closed the door to the infirmary. The long steady strides derailed to an erratic stomping and nothing could conceal the loud noise when the door to his own room swung open and closed by itself. Fassbender held back a smirk, turning around to see Ewan staring as if through him.

“Permission to speak freely, sir.” He nodded, granting it with the subtle knowledge that he already knew what was about to come. “You’re softening, aren’t you? You know we should keep Sean and observe him for at least twenty-four hours before letting him do _anything_.”

“What would you have done, McGregor?”

“Just the same, Mike. Let them have the comfort of each other’s arms until morning.”

This time, Fassbender didn’t hold the smile. He felt incredibly fine, despite the wryness. He had just put his regiment back in order, and all it took... His mind wandered and stopped at the vision of James. He could bet he had done something about Sean. Fuck. That British bastard had just saved his life and his regiment. He could bet his eyeballs that there was a James finger - or else entire hand - on the release. Michael would have to thank him, he already knew how. There, without Sean to haunt him, he could see that, God, he was missing James terribly. More than mostly anything.

“Tell me...” The colonel’s voice broke the silence, making the Scot glance up at him. “Do you ever miss home?”

Ewan held back a smile that showed in his eyes only. “There’s not a single day I don’t think of home, sir. My wife and girls, little Esther, she was just a newborn when I left. Must be a well-grown lady by now.”

Michael could hear the devotion dripping from his voice, tender and soft, so fulfilling that he wondered if he himself could ever be the subject of such devotion. McGregor’s family was for sure blessed for having him, even if he was so far. “Did you ever failed on your love for them, officer?”

He shook his head, vehemently. “Never, sir. They are my ladies and own my heart and soul much prior to the Führer.” No news until that point; very few men working in Switzerland would put their families below the Führer in the ranking of devotion. As a man with no family, Fassbender could be much more of an enthusiast of the regimen, but he always remembered Rommy, how she would be condemned as genetically inappropriate. He thought of Viggo and Sean and how great they were to each other, how their private lives interfered with absolutely nothing regarding their jobs, how endearing it was to feel the complicity and tenderness hidden under rude gestures and tough words. He couldn’t think of a world where these stuff were proscribed. Yes, it would lack so much pain, but wouldn’t it also lack all that much of joy?

“I thought you hadn’t.” The colonel saluted him, yawning wide and gesturing him to stay where he was when he considered getting up to properly salute him back. “You can remain sit, McGregor. I don’t really care if you don’t salute and it’s clear that the man you’re responding to is busy enough not to mind if you don’t either.”

He could have a glimpse of Ewan’s smile before leaving the infirmary and return to the office. His words were still resounding inside his head. _There’s not a single day I don’t think of home, sir._ Michael barely had a home to get back to. His home had left him at the same day Rommy did. His parents were away, very well-hidden in the borders of Ireland or whatever, safe but apart from him, trying not to get caught by the war that had already taken his child from them. He was thirty-five, was brilliant at his job, made a little success with women and had never found anything that inspired him to raise anything that resembled a family.

Or at least, so he thought.


End file.
